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No one ever regarded the First of January with indifference. It is that from which all date their time, and count upon what is left. It is the nativity of our common Adam.

Charles Lamb

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Charles Lamb
Age: 59 †
Born: 1775
Born: February 10
Died: 1834
Died: December 27
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Writer
London
England
Firsts
Date
First
Indifference
Years
Count
Time
Marriage
Common
Nativity
Upon
January
Left
Regarded
Ever
Adam

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A poor relation—is the most irrelevant thing in nature.
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Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.
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You do not play then at whist, sir? Alas, what a sad old age you are preparing for yourself!
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This very night I am going to leave off tobacco! Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised.
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Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea.
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I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.
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Ceremony is an invention to take off the uneasy feeling which we derive from knowing ourselves to be less the object of love and esteem with a fellow-creature than some other person is. It endeavours to make up, by superior attentions in little points, for that invidious preference which it is forced to deny in the greater.
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.
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A sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature.
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When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love.
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The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever.
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Fly not yet 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.
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I know that a sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature, not even excepting the delicate creatures which bear them.
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Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells Of youth and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime!
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I hate a man who swallows [his food], affecting not to know what he is eating. I suspect his taste in higher matters.
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The man must have a rare recipe for melancholy, who can be dull in Fleet Street.
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How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?
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Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see another mountain in my life.
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